Angst

So once again I had to perform travesty that calls itself RA duty weekend. My first weekend, although lonely and without food, wasn’t unbearable, so I expected the same, or better, from this weekend. However, I was sorely mistaken. I was really excited because my friend Frank was coming to see me and I probably spent the 48 hours prior to his arrival making ready my place of residence so as to not shock and appall the lovely creature. Although, the effing gigantic bag of trash, with two decorative side trash bags was not taken out, but was hiding behind our door for nearly a week even after Frank had left. Something about walking that extra 40 feet to put them in the dumpster struck the roommate and myself as something undesirable, and we left it until the moment right before they started smelling like a zombie corpse to take it out. Anywho, in my excitement for my visitor, I neglected to see if there were any conferences checking into the residence halls this weekend, but even so, I figured it’d be about 50 people max, and I might get a few calls here and there. Mmm. Wrongo. Little did I know that 300 people were going to check into this bitch for a Methodist conference, and I was the babysitter for them all.

Checking people in to the residence halls always comes with a few calls from the desk personnel and randomly forgotten keys, but nothing like the apocalypse that was 6/18/10. Oh no. From 5 o’clock that Friday evening until noon that Sunday I was playing maid for these people, and not the cool French kind, like the “you’re going to be my bitch because I can make you, and you can’t do shit about it” kind. Between the appallingly incompetent (did I say incompetent? Because I think absolutely retarded would be a nice accessory to that descriptor) desk worker who happened to be working that whole weekend and the, “Hey you, I locked my keys in my room” I’m certain I received at least 40 calls. I don’t think I get 40 calls in a month. I’m just throwing this out there, the week before, we had 100 handicapped kids in here, all with keys of their own, and you want to know how many calls I got on my regular duty night? Zero. Some of these kids were blind, mentally retarded, paraplegic, etc., and they could handle their freaking keys. Why couldn’t these people attending the so-called Methodist “conference” (I’d like to know where the conference part came into play, because I just think all 300 were in the fucking lobby the whole time, plucking keys on the piano and talking way too loud so I couldn’t get anything done) handle themselves? I don’t know. I don’t think God knows. Perhaps Lady Gaga does.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind unlocking doors for people. That’s my job. But this was a constant issue. I had consistent calls, one or 2 an hour on average, from 5 p.m. that Friday until 2:30 Saturday morning, and then again at 6:30 Saturday morning until about 9 p.m. Saturday evening. I wouldn’t normally be so angsty about the situation, but this became a bit of a joke for the people staying here. By the end of the weekend, they were saying that they didn’t recognize me because it “wasn’t 2 in the morning,” and amongst the various cat calls of “Hey girl!” I had people telling me how tired I looked. Screw you all. I mean, it’s super safe walking around campus at 1 in the morning by yourself in your pajamas; in fact, the real possibility of getting raped is a real gas!

When I thought everything had calmed down, and the Christian campers had finally mastered the novel thought that is “Keys” (first introduced by Plato in 301 BC), I once again hear the subtle tones resonating from the RA duty phone at about 2:30 a.m. It was the Asshat who lives in the basement of the dorms. He lost his key. Joy. But, alas, I did make my way back up to the LLC, clad in my Batman boxers, Birkenstocks, and half shirt to let him in with little hatred in my heart, passing little judgment as I saw he was adorned in a wife beater and plaid plants standing in the pouring rain.

That following Sunday morning, Incompetard was yet again working at the front desk, and was supposed to be there at 6:45 a.m. for campers to begin checking out. Of course, my superiors had failed to inform me that it was my responsibility to unlock the desk at that time, and during that same time frame, the RA phone had also decided to stop ringing. So, whilst I was enjoying my first hours of slumber in awhile, Smarty McSmart Pants was desperately trying to get a hold of me to unlock the desk so he could begin checkout. I did not receive a call until 7:45. He was trying to call me for an hour on that phone. Apparently it didn’t register to him that the 35 times he had talked to me the 2 previous days of the weekend that I was still the RA on duty. He didn’t try my cell phone. He sat like the complete clueless chump that he is on the outside of the desk area, waiting until the RA phone magicked itself back to life, for me to unlock the desk area. Funny thing is, you can jump over the desk, turn on the lights, and have access to everything you need for checkout without the RA unlocking anything. Did Incompetard do this? Of course not. He sat on the other side of the desk on a bench. For an hour. Waiting for me to hold his hand. Even funnier, he was using the phone from the front desk to call me. He was literally sitting on the desk, not climbing over and using the company phone. I hate stupid people.

Anyways, after the whole checking out thing was over, Tardman stopped working, and everything calmed down…until midnight. When lightning struck my building, my room precisely, and the power went out and fried lots of electronics. Officer Farva came to investigate, and we were reunited once again. <3 I can hardly wait until my next duty weekend arrives.

Home Time

I feel as if I’ve been a Debby Downer in my first posts- a bit of a Negative Nancy if you will, (and I think you will), so I thought this would be a bit lighter. I have had the great fortune, as of late, to spend lots of time around the homeland. I do so enjoy spending time with my family, which includes: my mom, who totally kicks ass (by the way), my older brother who is a bit of a superhero/freak of nature, and I mean that in the best of ways, my little brother who is getting cooler by the day and never ceases to amaze me on how well he can snake his way out of physical activity, my sister, the fashionista and mini-me, and my father, the random blues listening, gun toting, carpenter of a dentist. It is quite the adventure each time I traverse back home, and I never know what I’ll be up to. Sometimes it’s something like mowing the grass, other times it’s shooting guns. Life in the boondocks isn’t as boring as you’d think.

I’ve also been lucky enough to spend ample time around my hilarious and wonderful friend Cooper. We try to take it upon ourselves to do the whitest things imaginable whenever possible, and I would say that he is the utmost authority on white things in which to participate. Last weekend, we spent his birthday in rubber boots fishing on a boat in the middle of a pond. Yesterday, in traditional, Midwestern white folk fashion, we made peanut butter balls, walked around my house (because he hadn’t been back there before), found mulberry trees, rode four wheelers to get them, made a mulberry pie (It's safe to say that Cooper's new name will be Betty Crocker), and played catch outside with a baseball. I really don’t know why we played catch, because neither of us played baseball/softball, nor are we any good, however it seemed appropriate at the time. He was using a right handed glove when he is left handed, so the throws that were exchanged were exquisite, to say the least. Or, as he so eloquently described it with a lilt in his voice, "I look like like I'm a homo waving goodbye to a boyfriend in the distance!" When the time came for us to part, we took the pie out of the oven (I made sure that he took a piece of our delicious pie to his fox of a dad,) and he traveled off into the horizon that is Little Sweden, USA. I will miss him, but I will see him sooner than a 35-year-old virgin says “Oops! I swear that’s never happened before. This is way better than anime.” on a first date.

I also have been fortunate enough to have made a new friend who I very much enjoy spending time with. We spent lots of the weekend and previous week together, and it has just been quite the adventure filled with various fits of narcolepsy and ghost hunting. It’s nice getting to know someone new who hasn’t heard all of my stories (yet) and can feign interest in what I’m up to. I look forward to spending more time together soon. Also, my other best friend returns back to the United States, and I couldn’t be more excited. I have missed her so much. It will be good to get some dudey girl talk on again. She is like my other weird half, who I would never go a little gay for, despite our open affection. To be reunited will be so wonderful.

What can I say? In a nutshell, life is good.

Country Music

There are few things in life that I despise as much as country music. Those things being tomatoes, feet, and stupid people. That being said, when you’re from central Kansas, it’s impossible to avoid those terrible sound abominations that never fail to float my way via musical waves that make me want to stab my ear drums, and then stab others’ in case they were not able to “save themselves” from the blasphemy that calls itself music. (That was quite the run on sentence, if I do say so myself). I suppose my hatred comes from having to listen to the same mind-numbing 4 chord songs about ’Merica and gettin’ druunk in the local saloon. Who calls it a saloon anymore anyways? Funny thing, I thought they were called bars now. Anyhoo, I also find it terribly annoying that the people doing the singing often don’t practice what they are so soulfully droning about. The hilarity of watching a 5’6” Kenny Chesney singing about his down home way of life while wearing puka shells and standing on a beach gets me every time.

Another aspect of country music that drives me batty, besides the annoying guitar and self imposed artificial southern drawl, of course, is the constant whining. Although the whining vocals do compliment the whiny guitar, I really don’t want to spend my time listening to people bitching about how their lives are horrible. Really, if your life is that bad, stop complaining about everything, quit singing, and get shit done, because apparently this whole country music career isn’t making you happy. I also find it hard to believe, that Toby Keith or some other asshole wearing a cowboy hat has been working overtime at the plant. Seriously. You know he’s sitting in his mansion writing another hit song about cows, and only dons the Canadian tuxedo when it’s concert time. I really feel like there’s more to life than beer, dogs, trucks, hunting, and that whore of a wife who took everything in the divorce. Let’s get original, people.

Perhaps I don’t like it because I grew up with it or I’ve been trying to be original. All I know is that that music is worse than listening to a 2 hour commencement speech by Fran Drescher. Maybe it stems from my years of working at the pool. As if it didn’t suck enough to be stewing in my own sweat, screaming at little kids, and ensuring that I will eventually get skin cancer, I was forced to listen to it all day long- sometimes for 11 hours. Delicious. Who really knows? Now whatever is an overly opinionated girl to do when she makes the trip back to the central Kansas homeland full of twang and drawl? Continue to boycott country music, thank sweet baby Jesus for iPods, and move on with life are the only things I can think of.